America was Born in the Streets
by Stanley Marlowe
Summary: The story of Walter 'Monk' McGinn, how he came to America with Priest Vallon, learned to survive New York, and how he, after Priest's death, continued the fight against the victorious Nativists. Dedicated to Brendan Gleeson, who plays Monk in the film.
1. Chapter 1

_**America was Born in the Streets**_

Stanley Marlowe

_Wretched, ephemeral race, children of chance and tribulation, why do you force me to tell you the very thing which it would be most profitable for you not to hear? The very best thing is utterly beyond your reach: not to have been born, not to be, to be nothing. However, the second best thing for you is: to die soon._

_-_Aristotle

**Chapter One**

Walter 'Monk' McGinn looked at the cart go past him, followed by many of his fellow Irish. He himself stood there, arms folded, his shillelagh on the ground beside him.

He had admired the dead man on the cart. Monk had found it ironic that the man had taken a clerical nickname like he himself had done. He had not wanted to fight in this war, but the price the man had offered, and the very fact that he was fighting for people like Monk, made the mercenary decide to join in.

That man was Priest Vallon, former leader of the Dead Rabbits, the most powerful gang leader in the Five Points. Or rather, was. Now it was Bill the Butcher, the man who had led the Nativists to victory in the snow on this bloody day.

Monk sighed to himself as he turned to look at Priest's killer. Bill was leading his companions away in great jubilation, eager to begin their takeover the next day. Monk looked down at his shillelagh; it had killed nine of their men. Nine new notches for his shillelagh. He should have been paid ninety dollars for that. Good money for a bloodbath like this. And he had had one chance to take from this man what was owed.

And he had done the right thing instead. He had taken the man's most precious belonging so that the man's son would be able to inherit it. He had not thought of this before. Not even when the horn rang, signifying the death of the leader. He had made his mind up when he had seen the little son of Priest Vallon weep over his father's body. He had a feeling that the son would avenge the father, and he knew that he would see that day with joy.

He looked down at his shillelagh. It had had eight notches on it before today. Now he would have to add nine more for the men he'd killed. He suddenly wondered how many he'd laid low; he'd seen men crawl away with injuries that wouldn't heal for a month.

Pushing the thoughts of broken men out of his mind, Monk wondered what he would do under the regime of Bill the Butcher. Bill was still young and already a reputation for being a cruel man. Monk had seen the death of Priest, he'd seen how Bill had sneaked up behind Priest and distracted him with a dying man. Bill was certainly a dirty fighter, but somehow tried to keep a sense of honour by refusing any man to touch Priest's body. Now that tall bastard was the top gang leader of New York's Five Points. It was a sad day for the Irish, indeed so it was.

And now Bill would take over, unless the Irish could regroup and fight back. However, the Dead Rabbits were done for until someone could resurrect them. Thinking of that, Monk's thoughts immediately travelled to a small boy who had taken his father's knife and swung it at three Nativists. But it would be years before he could even consider putting young Amsterdam on his father's old throne. And Bill would make sure he was locked away for a while.

Monk growled to himself as he watched the victorious Natives head off to tell the news and begin to carve up the spoils. Things were taking a turn for the worst, Monk thought as he picked up his shillelagh.

Fuck it, he thought. Priest Vallon had been a very good and noble man, but a foolish man. Surely he could not have envisioned a world without enemies? Surely he could not have believed that a faithful heart defeated all else? Bill had received a mighty beating from Priest, but that hadn't stopped Bill from coming back up to kill Priest.

He hurried into line with the rest to bid farewell to his old friend. They had been together far too long, no matter what had happened to them since leaving Ireland together for America as youths. No matter what had passed between them, Monk owed Priest his attendance at the very least.

He walked in line with Hell-Cat Maggie and Happy Jack Mulraney. They were two of Priest's former lieutenants, and the two of them had fought fiercely in countless battles. Monk had fought with them before, and knew that they would not soon forget Priest Vallon.

It was McGloin that Monk distrusted. The Irishman was a mighty fighter but his loyalty had not been as assured as the rest. McGloin had been an Irish born in America, and though he had inherited an Irish accent from his parents, he knew little of Ireland and the old country ways. He might not decide to fight back against the Americans, for he counted himself American more than the others. Priest hadn't minded it, and Monk had always warned him about trusting American-born Irishmen. They were unpredictable.

He looked at the body of Priest. So noble, even in death, he should have died long ago. Monk wondered how much of it was because of his followers and how much of Priest's own fighting ability; both had helped Priest to become the true leader of the immigrant Irish landing in America to carve a living out of its great promise.

Some bloody promise indeed, what with gangs of vicious Natives that would have loved to kill every man, woman, and child that landed on their coast. Bastards, the lot of them.

Monk sighed; he had never believed that the war between these sides would end. He had seen it take his father in Ireland, he had seen it take many lives of good men, such as Priest. This was a war that would not go away soon.

He felt the common razor he had taken from Priest's pocket, and he knew then that he ought to do something about it. Succeed where his friend had failed, and then pass on the legacy to Priest's son when he returned. Monk himself had no children that he knew of, and he didn't want to supplant Priest anyway; just continue what he had been doing, but properly.

Slowly, calmly, Monk sung an old Irish tune for the dead, in the Gaelic language. He wondered how many of these Irish still knew the language, apart from Hell-Cat and Happy Jack. He'd soon find out, he thought, even as the two began singing along with him.

The song spread, until several dozen people were singing in fluent Gaelic. The others were either too caught up in grief to sing, or far more likely, didn't know the traditional Irish language. Monk sang louder to make up for the ignorance.

He'd find a way to undo the damage here. Some way, somehow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

The sea spray got into his eyes as he craned forward to look at the incoming harbour.

He stood on the edge, balanced so delicately that the merest change in wind could make him slip. To save the risk, he grabbed the shoulders of the man in front of him, who was kind enough to let the seventeen-year-old hold onto him for support.

He stared out to where endless opportunities lay, an escape from the hell that he'd left behind. He could put the past behind him and focus on what was coming ahead in his life.

He looked at Vallon, standing not too far away from him. The young man was tall, dark-haired, and looked five years older than his twenty years. He had an air about him that suggested a lifetime of experience and harship. Anyone knowing Vallon would agree that that was a fine description of Vallon.

"Watch it, Monk, you'll not be in America yet before risking your neck," Vallon called to his friend.

Monk looked at Vallon, "Vallon, you're surely not thinking that we'll be leaping like spring lambs in America?"

Vallon glanced at Monk sharply, "You heard what they said about America."

"Aye and I saw the coins they took for saying such tripe. I don't trust anything just said in the wind, Vallon." He never called Vallon by his nickname. Incidentally, he had gotten his own nickname the same way and the same time as Vallon himself had.

Most of the people on the boat knew about their reputations, and doubtless their reputations would be well established when they reached New York and got settled.

Monk picked up his shillelagh_; _that prized shillelagh that was the last thing he had from his father, Seamus McGinn. Seamus had been a streetfighter, and a fierce one at that before the drink slowed him down. It had led to his death in a gang fight against a group of Protestants that came with the English. Monk had been his eldest son and so he had inherited the man's weapon. His shillelagh.

It was a finely crafted Irish club, although slightly shorter than the usual shillelagh. Seamus had spent days finding and shaping the blackthorn wood, smearing it with a layer of butter and hanging it on the chimney to cure and fire-harden, giving it its amazing durability and its shiny black appearance. The hitting end had been half hollowed out to be filled with lead in order to make it heavy enough to smash a man's skull clean open. Seamus had gone further though, by cutting notches into it for every man he'd killed.

Monk had thus inherited a notched shillelagh, but also a charmed one, for no man had killed his father when he was armed with it. He had relinquished it in favour of an axe one fight, when he'd seen that the fight was a failure for the Irish Catholics. The Protestants would have coveted the shillelagh, but Seamus wanted Monk to inherit his prized weapon, and he had given it to another man to hand over to his nephew. Irish honour required that the man give it to Monk, and his life would have been forfeit if he had stolen the weapon for himself.

Monk had since fought with it every time, and so far he had not yet killed a man with it. He had been raised by his mother to have a fear of God no matter what you had to do in life to survive. Monk had tried to avoid killing with his shillelagh, remembering how his father had died in battle.

_Walter was only seven years old when he realized what his father did. He discovered it in a shocking fashion._

_The little boy came into the small kitchen of his Dublin home, thirsty for a drink of water before going back to bed._

_He had noticed that a light was still on in the kitchen, and knew that he ought to turn it off to avoid a fire. Fires were a threat always spoken of but never seen due to the Dubliners' fear of it consuming buildings and valuables._

_So Walter walked into that kitchen with the intention of doing good. He didn't want to give his mother a shock when he walked in, but it happened anyway._

_His mother was standing in the kitchen with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She was holding a rag that was a dark red in colour. Her hands too were reddened, and it contrasted with her pale face as she whispered in horror, "Walter! Away with you an' back to bed this instant!"_

_Walter didn't understand the fear in his mother's voice but it frightened him too. He was also confused; had seen her with blood on her hands as she was preparing a meal. Was she cooking something tonight? Why?  
_

_Walter looked around as he said, "I'm thirsty!"_

_Then he noticed his father._

_Seamus was seated in a chair so awkwardly that it looked ready to tip over. The big Irishman's shirt was off, and several bandages were bound over his ribs. The bandages were red on the right side. That wasn't the most disturbing part of it, though. What got Walter's attention was the deep cut in Seamus' forearm that still oozed blood._

_Seamus looked at him in astonishment, "Ach, did ye not hear your muther's words, Walter? Up to bed!"_

_Walter started to cry, "What's the matter with Pa?"_

_His mother wrapped her bloody arms around him, "Calm down now, Walter, it's alright." But Walter could hear the fear in her own voice._

_"What happened, Pa?" He asked his father._

_Seamus paused, "A fight."_

_Walter's eyes widened. He had been beaten for getting into fights with other children. Had Pa been in a fight?_

_Seamus sighed, "I won, son. I won."_

_Walter was really confused now.  
_

_Seamus smiled, "A man called me a bad name, and we had a little fight, son. I made him apologize to me. Do you understand that son?"_

_Walter nodded hesitantly, no longer sobbing. _

_"Good. Now if you go up to bed now, I'll tell you about it tomorrow when I'm well."_

_Walter headed upstairs, but not before hearing, "Don't fret, Rose, it's about time he learns anyway."_

_Rose answered in a hushed voice, "But Seamus, this is serious. I don't want my sons to follow you to yer grave. I want them to get out of here and be able to find peace!"_

_Seamus broke through, "Come now Rose! He's going to be a man for God's bloody sake!"_

_Walter heard his mother gasp, and he too was shocked. He'd never heard anyone say that about God before. Was Papa going to hell now? he thought to himself as he crept up the stairs._

Monk sighed as he made the sign of the cross. Then he jumped down to stand next to Vallon as they entered a new and bloody phase of their lives.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Monk and Vallon got off the boat, to wild Irish music playing just to the left of them. Some jolly Irishman had pulled out a fiddle and was playing his heart out.

Monk almost began singing along with the man. The joy in the Irishman's heart was clear, it flowed with the music that he played so easily and merrily.

Vallon grinned at Monk's joyful nature, and clapped his friend on the shoulder, "Come on, Monk. Let's get out of here and into this new country."

Monk suddenly felt horribly excited as he approached the plank to exit the boat. Was this the start to a glorious new chapter in his life? He made a sign of the cross, wishing for good luck and health. Behind him, he knew that Vallon was doing the same. The fiddle player continued on in front of Monk. The young Irishman couldn't see past the bulk of the fiddle player in front of him, and there were two others to his left, denying him any sight of New York.

This mystery heightened Monk's anticipation. Dear Lord, he prayed, is this the miracle that thou promised me would be mine?

The fiddle player began strolling down the plank, still focused completely on his music. Monk suddenly ignored the music, and wondered if the man was aware he was no longer in the pub back home in his village.

Monk's feet almost slipped on the wood as he walked down to his new home. He could hear Vallon breathing behind him, and he wondered if Vallon was as excited as him. Surely he must be; this was the chance of the lifetime that they had fought hard to get.

Monk grabbed the small bundle where he knew his shillelagh was hidden. He didn't want to carry it so boldly here. This was not downtown alleyways of Dublin, this was America.

The fiddle player suddenly faltered in his music as he stepped off the plank and onto the dock. Monk wondered what was going on, but he soon found out.

A thud suddenly sounded and halted the music instantly. The fiddle player screamed after another thud sounded the air and the Irishman bent forward, moaning.

Monk stared in shock at the smashed handled of the fiddle, and the wounded man moaning on the ground. A third stone was suddenly thrown- Monk knew instantly that the man had been pelted with stones- and struck the man in his right hand, breaking two of his fingers with a sickening crunch.

A group of voices called out contemptuously, calling the man names that Monk had heard many times on the streets of Dublin, along with some that he'd never heard before.

He looked up and saw three youths, much like himself, throwing rocks at the people getting off the boats and insulting them with a barrage of slander. Near them, a security guard did nothing to stop them.

Monk stared in shock; this was what had been promised? Had God in his Infinite Wisdom chosen such brutal youths to be the welcoming party?

He looked at Vallon, and he looked equally surprised.

Monk's astonishment suddenly melted away into a seething anger at himself for getting his hopes up so much. Of course America wouldn't be the perfect land of opportunity that the men had said it was. Of course he should have expected flaws.

Priest, however, was still unable to understand what had happened. He helped the man get to his feet and looked back at Monk, "What the hell is this?"

Monk sighed, "This is home alright. Just like I remember it."

"" "" " "" " "" "" " " "" "

Later, the two youths were walking down the streets of New York, seeking some kind of sign on where to make their home. They glanced around at the many different people.

They drank in the sights around them, marvelling at how their imaginations had pictured something much grander. However, it was good enough for now. They wondered where they could get a drink, or something to eat.

Monk clutched the bag that held his shillelagh tightly. After the encounter on the dock, he no longer trusted the dreams in his head. He wondered if it was wise to brazenly carry the shillelagh down the street. He decided against it. Vallon kept his Irish cross and short sword on his back and at his side.

They spied a small pub that looked remarkably Irish. They shouldered their way through the streets to get to it. Monk's mouth watered as he smelled the cooking meat inside. He was glad that it was not Lent; he was hungry enough to eat a whole cow.

A serving girl stood at the bar, her cleavage inviting to the eyes of the men in the pub, "Can I help you two gentlemen today?" Despite her thin stature, it was clear that she was a tough girl. Monk could tell by the flinty look in her eyes that was barely concealed by the brightness of youth.

Vallon spoke up, "Two bowls of Irish stew, and a good round of coddle."

The girl narrowed her eyes mischievously, "Ah, a couple of Dubliners fresh off the boat, so I reckon!"

Monk grinned, "Aye, that's the truth."

The girl grinned, "Take a seat, lads, it's on its way."

Monk and Vallon found a small place to sit down and watched people go by down the street. Neither spoke for a while, each lost in their thoughts. Monk looked at Vallon, wondering what the serious-faced man was thinking. Monk himself was waiting eager for a good taste of coddle.

He suddenly looked at Vallon, "Oy there, Vallon, who in the hell are we goin' to pay for that?"

Vallon nodded, "I was thinkin' of that myself."

Monk sighed, "Well, we'll have to make do with the farthings and ha'pennies we got, but I don't know how much it is in American coinage. What do you even call them here?"

"Dollars," Vallon answered. Monk laughed at the odd word.

He looked at a group of men in top hats walking down the street. One was an older man, paunchy and morose-looking. He walked in a way that signified power and influence. Behind him were several men of varying ages deferring to him in silence.

Monk's eye caught on to a young man not to far from the old man's side. Based on features, Monk thought the youth was his own age. There was a certain ferocity to him though, one that suggested a fierce temper and a man's notions of life. Monk's hand strayed towards his shillelagh, as though expecting the teenager to pull his knife from his belt and fight Monk here and now.

Vallon noticed Monk's movement, "What's going on with you?"

Monk grimaced, "I don't like that one there. See him?"

Vallon followed his friend's gaze and nodded after a pause, "You're right. I have a bad feeling about that boyo."

Monk suddenly clasped a hand to his forehead, "My God! He was at the dock! He struck the fiddler on his fingers."

Vallon growled at the thought of that act of cruelty, "The slimy little bastard!"

Monk suddenly checked his response when he saw the coddle and Irish stew placed on their table. The serving girl smiled down at the young men, "There we are!"

Vallon looked up hesitantly, "Listen, lass, can we pay in farthings?"

The girl adopted a look of mock exasperation, "Oh? And how could I trust ye not to cheat me, sirs?"

Monk hastily put a hand in his pocket, "Ach, look you tell us how many farthings go into a dollar, and the like."

The girl, who looked about fifteen, smiled mischievously at Monk, "So you'd trust a pretty face to give you the honest answer?"

Monk smiled back, "The Good Lord wouldnae be so unkind to a pair of poor bastards such as us in America."

The girl laughed, "Hand me ten farthings and I'll let you keep the rest, because I can see you're going tae need it."

Monk's mirth suddenly faltered as he remembered the violent youth at the dock who'd just walked by, "Aye. I think we will."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four  
**

Monk tasted the sausage and bacon in the coddle. Soft and juicy, like his mother had made them. The potatoes were a bit stale, but the meat made up for it by far.

Suddenly, he thought back to the last time he'd eaten coddle.

_Rose McGinn laid the dish down in front of her children. Walter, being the oldest, was given the smaller piece on the account of the fact that to be good was to give the greater share to those who needed it more. Like Seamus, their working father, or young Christy, small and frail for her age. Walter's mother continually quoted the words of the Bible to her children, stressing the necessity of that._

_Walter's stomach was growling, but knew that his mother wanted him to say grace on the account of their father not being present, but at the dockyards working on the waterfront. He was the oldest child and at nine years old, behaving more and more like the man of the house. Rose rarely mentioned their father unless it was to comment on how he was a hard worker and a loyal husband but flawed because of his lack of faith._

_Walter would not be lacking of faith, she promised him with a shaky voice occasionally, after discrediting Seamus. Walter would grow to love God and fear his punishment of the wicked. He would rise above the world that his parents inhabited._

_Years later, Walter would realize that it had all begun from that one night two years before when he'd realized that Seamus was in a gang and fought against the Protestants who competed fiercely for work on Dublin's docks. _

_Seamus had come into Walter's room a few days after the initial incident and told him about how he defended his Catholicism in battle and fought bad people. He told Walter about how a man must fight in such times, or else fail to be a man. Walter wondered if Rose had insisted that he reference his faith to Walter, but there likely was a fear of God in his soul, suppressed by the reality around him._

_Seamus had shown him the scars on his body, and the notches on his shillelagh. He told Walter of how he put the markings on his weapon in celebration of triumph. Walter would forever be disturbed by the thought of each little nick on the weapon to be the life of a man on Seamus' soul. God would surely punish him for it when he died. Seamus shrugged it off when Walter said as much, making him even more uneasy._

_As the years passed, though, it was easier to comprehend. Walter became exposed towards the danger of the streets, and he saw his first fight when he was eight years old, watching two boys going at each other with pieces of wood, until Seamus waded in with his shillelagh, halting the violence. Walter had loved his father at that moment, and was even more assured of his father's goodness when Seamus immediately told him that only a fool sought violence blindly. One must be able to bite his pride at small insults, knowing when someone was serious or not._

_Of course, Seamus often broke that rule. Walter would be confused for many months at why this was so, then as he got older, he knew that his father was most involved in fighting when he was drunk. The spirits he drank were the cause of his most violent tempers, when he staggered into the house late at night, cursing as he rubbed an old wound. He would holler at Rose, who prayed to God to forgive her husband for being so blasphemous. Walter heard words he'd never imagined existed from his father._

_Seamus was a good worker, though. He would always show Walter around his work, showing him that he must never rely on a job at the docks to get him through life. He must take up a proper trade._

_So at ten, Walter was already wondering what he was going to do with his life. It was on one day that he decided what he was fated to do._

_Walter's family lived only a few blocks away from the Liffey, which split Dublin in half. Walter frequently crossed the river on his exploring walks of the city, trying to avoid any trouble. Because he was a young child who looked reasonably cared for, few people truly wanted to mess with him, thinking that his parents were nearby._

_One day, he found himself watching a group of older boys playing football in the street. It wasn't easy to play, and the youths were frequently interrupted._

_He walked up to them, "Can I play?"_

_"Piss off!" the first youth said. He was considerably bigger than Walter, and about three years older. All of the lads were thirteen it seemed to Walter._

_Walter was hurt by the hostile tone and felt humiliated to be so insulted in front of everyone. One of the other boys glared angrily at the speaker, "Mind your tongue, Fin. The lad didn't ask for an insult."_

_Fin gave a leer, "Aye and we didn't ask for little pricks to come up to us and bother our game."_

_Suddenly, a fierce anger consumed Walter; he was being humiliated. Was this what his father had been talking about when he spoke of honour? Was Fin expecting him to fight back? So be it._

_Running forward in his anger, Walter yelled out his first swear word in his mother's Gaelic, "Hey, amadan, you don't call me those names!"_

_Turning around in surprise, Fin yelled as Walter, shorter and lighter than his opponent, slammed into Fin's midriff with his head. Because he hadn't been expecting it, Fin fell over onto the ground.  
_

_Waving a childish fist with all his might, Walter landed a fierce punch where his arm was nearest; right in Fin's gut. Fin gasped in pain, swearing foully, and then he kicked Walter in the leg. Ignoring Walter's wail of pain, Fin landed a fierce punch of his own on Walter's eye._

_Weeping from the pain, Walter clutched the swollen area around his eye. He didn't see the second kick from Fin that landed him flat on his back._

_All of a sudden he heard a meaty thud followed by another scream from Fin, but far more higher pitched than the yell he'd uttered when Walter charged him at first. Even though he was consumed by his own pain and humiliation, Walter could tell that Fin was in real pain._

_Blinking away his tears, he noticed Fin doubled on the ground, clutching his groin and wailing. Over him stood the boy who'd first reprimanded him._

_"Yer a bloody little bastard, Fin, an' you'll feel both my shoes on your shrivelled blein again if you ever do that again!"_

_The older boy, who was taller than Fin, almost picked up Walter in his arms and took him into a little shop on one side of the street. Walter noticed that there was a sign in both English and Gaelic. It read "Vallon's Barbershop" in both languages._

_Inside, it was cramped, but still very comfortable-looking. Several customers were sitting down, waiting for a haircut while a small boy went around shining shoes for money._

_A tall man was also administering haircuts. He looked somber and serious as he gazed upon the hair he was working with. His shears seemed to be extensions of his fingers as they sought out the hair and trimmed it to their perfection._

_Almost forgetting the pain he felt, Walter looked at his rescuer, "Who's that?"_

_The boy smiled, recognizing the awe in Walter's prebuscent voice, "That's my da. Cillian Vallon, best barber in Dublin, so he is!"_

_Cillian noticed the appearance of the two boys and hurried over to see them, "Now then, son! Who's this?"_

_The boy- Walter realized his surname was Vallon- patted Walter on the shoulder, "This young lad wanted to join our game and Fin was being a bully and this lad goes right for Fin and takes him on!"_

_Walter expected Cillian- who seemed more like a clergy member than a barber- to tut, lecture Walter on fighting, and perhaps even cuff him over the head. Instead, however, Cillian chuckled to himself, patted Walter on the head and said, "You're a brave lad! Soon to be a mighty fighter, no doubt! What's yer name?"_

_Walter spoke in a hesitant voice, trying to hide the pain in it from his injuries, "Walter McGinn, sir."_

_Cillian nodded, "Aye. Well it figures to see who your father is."_

_Walter wasn't sure if that was an insult or a compliment. It had been delivered in such a neutral voice that he wasn't sure. He suddenly noticed that the shoe-shiner was being given a tip from one of the customers. The sight of such easy money filled Walter's eyes with a longing. He knew that his mother was afraid of having no money. Maybe if he could get a job, like his father said, he could help her._

_Vallon noticed the look and spoke quickly to his father, "Say, da, you think you could employ this lad in the shop?"_

_Cillian started in surprise, as did Walter. Cillian recovered instantly however, thinking about it. He spoke to Walter, "Do you want to work for me, lad? Work in the barbershop?"_

_Walter thought about it. Learning to cut hair from this man, earning money, having somthing to do that got him out of trouble, like his parents said. He knew he wanted it badly._

_Saying as much to Cillian, the man chuckled, "Well, ask yer parents first, lad. If they want, they can come talk to me about it. But for now, I want you to go with Liam and check out your eye. It's turning into a real shiner, lad."_

_Vallon took Walter out back and washed out the youngster's eye, and afterwards brought him home on his father's orders._

_Walter thanked Vallon for walking with him and hurried indoors, where his family was about to sit for dinner. Surprisingly, Seamus was there too on one of those rare days when he ate with the family._

_Seeing Walter's appearance, Rose screamed. Seamus stood up in shock, "Bloody hell!"_

_Ignoring her husband's blasphemy for once, Rose bent on one knee to examine Walter's face, "What happened to you!"_

_Walter told the story in its full entirety, not missing one thing._

_At the end of it, Seamus had a wide grin on his weathered face, "My son loses his first fight, and gets offered a job. I don't know whether to beat you or hug you, Walter."_

_Walter beamed, and Rose smiled feebly through her tears at the chances her son had been offered; her prayers were answered, it seemed. She stood up, "I'm thinking tomorrow we ought to eat something special to the occasion."_

_The next day, while Seamus was off to arrange the terms of work with Cillian, they had coddle. Vallon had been invited to join, and he sat next to Walter._

Monk smiled at the memory. It was the first time he'd met his favourite mentor, and one of his best friends. Not only that, it had led to his developing a trade to live on.

It had also given him a taste of fighting, and a sense that he could win if he fought hard enough. Though at the time he hadn't understood it so clearly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Monk and Vallon finished their meal quickly, neither saying anything as they ate.

The girl came back to collect their empty plates. Monk and Vallon had made sure that they had eaten everything, as they knew that any meal you got should be enjoyed as much as possible, for the next meal was never a guarantee.

Monk looked at the girl, "Say, do you know any places for a couple of Irish lads down on their luck?"

The girl shook her head, "This isn't what your fathers said it would be when they paid for your tickets."

Vallon flinched, "We found that out quick enough, miss. But say we want to make our own luck."

The girl laughed, "Will ye stop callin' me miss? I've got a name for feck's sake!"

Monk flinched at the mouth this young girl had, but felt attracted to her spirit, "Well tell us then!"

The girl looked down at Monk with a mock imperious tone, "Name's Maggie. Any of you have names?"

Monk smiled, "Walter McGinn, also known in Dublin as Monk, and this here is Liam Vallon, known fondly as Priest."

After Maggie's giggling subsided, Vallon asked, "Where would you say is a good place for us to make our own luck in this new country?"

Maggie sighed, "Well, if you want to start from the bottom up, there's the Five Points."

Monk smiled, "Where's that?"

She pointed northwards, "You'll get to Cross Street as you go that way, and then you'll find the Five Points. Can't miss it, on the account it looks like the misery you left behind in Ireland."

Vallon looked somber and got up, "Thank ye, Maggie. We'll not forget this."

Monk glanced one last time at Maggie. She smiled at him suddenly, in a way that she hadn't already smiled. Before, it was a smile that she would probably give to any customer, but this one was suddenly genuine. Monk returned it as best he could, wondering what she meant. He turned away from her to follow Vallon.

The two headed off towards the Five Points. As they went on, they could tell that things seemed to get worse the closer they got to the Five Points.

Monk looked at Vallon, "Weapons out, ye reckon?"

Vallon shrugged, "Suit yerself. But I have a bad feeling about this place."

Monk pulled out his shillelagh, looking at the many markings of his father's record. Seamus McGinn had killed many men in his time, and he had died as violently as he had lived. Monk made the sign of the cross instinctively as he thought of his father.

The two Irishmen walked into the Five Points after another passage of time, wading through crowds and looking for street names. The sight they beheld was beyond even their low expectations.

Animals were almost as common as people in the area. The houses were rickety for the most part, and while some lucky ones were made of stone, they were scarce indeed. The great square was full of people and fenced off in different places.

It was the people that made it the most unappealing. Their eyes were sunken, their bodies malnourished for the most part. Their presence brought back images of the Dublin streets to Monk. He shuddered; had he left the stew pot and fallen into the fire?

He held his shillelagh ready as he walked down the street. Alleyways leaned out, daring any foolish lad to enter, where thieves lurked. Vallon and Monk were both well accustomed to such a suspicious place. Trying not to breathe through their noses, they walked around, looking for an opportunity. Anything that could work to their advantage.

Suddenly Vallon bumped into a group of men. They turned around aggressively, staring at the tall, strong Irishman with a sword strapped to his waist.

Monk groaned. It was the same old man that he had seen before. With him were almost the same group of people, including the violent youth at the docks.

The old American glared at Vallon, "Watch where you're going, you little Godless Mick!"

Vallon smiled dangerously, "No need for that tone, sir."

The Americans paused; clearly nobody treated the man like that. Vallon, Monk knew, never treated anyone different unless he had seen for himself that they were worthy of respect. It had often gotten him in trouble.

Monk was glad he had pulled out his shillelagh. He hefted it daringly, prepared to help his friend.

The old man smiled at the sight of the two young men prepared to fight, "Piece of work, the two of you. Must be right off the boat."

The young American called out, "I recognize them, sir. They're fresh beggars."

Vallon growled behind clenched teeth, like a guard dog sensing a fox. The young man leered at the tall Irishman and pulled out a long and wickedly sharp knife. Vallon spat and prepared to swing his hefty cross in defence while he pulled out his sword.

Monk stepped in between Vallon and the Americans, "Hold, Priest. Another time."

Vallon snorted and lowered his weapon.

The older man grimaced, "Here's some advice for you two. Stay out of the Five Points if you know what's good for you. We don't like the vermin crawling around too much around here, and if you're not careful we'll hang you by your necks."

Monk knew they had been given a reprieve and they should take it while they could.

Monk led Vallon away but not without Vallon uttering a threat, "The rats can rise up and overwhelm the pig, so they can." With that, he turned to follow Monk as they hurriedly went off.

Monk shuddered, "Fuck! What is goin' on around here? There's nothin' for us here, Priest. Let's get outta here." He only ever called Vallon by his nickname when he felt truly worried.

Vallon knew that too, and he put a comforting arm on Monk's shoulder, "Put your trust in God, Monk. We'll get through yet."

Monk smiled, "And how are we to do that? So far I ain't seen one other bloody Irishman around these parts..."

"Oy! Who are you two, eh?"

Vallon and Monk looked around to see another Irish youth approach them. He looked very scruffy, a little older than Monk. He grinned at the two of them cheerfully, and in a thick accent, he repeated his question.

Vallon answered, "We're two lads from Dublin fallen on hard times in the land of plenty."

The youth's grin widened, "Aye, an' youse just stood up to the great Brian Cassius, so ye did! Anyone who stands to Cassius is welcome with me. I'm Jack Mulraney, known to all as Happy Jack."

Bemused, Monk and Vallon shook Happy Jack's outstretched hand. The young man was friendly enough, so Vallon introduced himself, "I'm Priest Vallon, and this un here is Walter McGinn, known as Monk."

Happy Jack grinned beneath his moustache, "Monk and Priest eh? Jesus but that's a fine pair of nicknames for youse two. Say, where're you from?"

Monk spoke up, "Dublin. We ain't a pair of bogtrotters an' the like." Bogtrotter was slang for a country bumpkin, and Monk was baiting Jack intentionally, for the young man's tongue and behaviour clearly showed he was from the countrysides of inner Ireland.

Jack flinched, but smiled at Monk, "A fine slagger y'are, Monk." A slagger was a man who made jokes good-naturedly. Both Monk and Vallon could hear the sarcasm in Jack's voice.

Vallon broke in, "You'll have to excuse Monk. He was in a run-in with one of Cassius' boys."

Jack frowned, "Which one?"

"The youngest. He was eating the head off of some poor Irishman on the docks. Also was a-chucking rocks and the like."

Jack glanced at Monk with less hostility in his face, "Shikes, I'd be in a foul mood after runnin' into Bill Cutting. He's supposed to be one of Cassius' fellas that he done took under his wing from out of the orphanage at Hellgate."

Vallon frowned, "Right bastard?"

Jack nodded, "To his bloody arse and halfway back. He'll be a nasty piece o' work unless he gets killed first."

Vallon looked at Jack, "Do you know anybody that we could look to for some employment?"

Jack nodded, "I'll be just be a minute." He headed off into the crowd. Monk knew that the young man wouldn't have come to them had he not been looking for recruits.

Vallon struck him suddenly on the shoulder, "Leave that lad alone, Monk!"

Monk shrugged sourly, "He's a proper little culchie, Vallon. A damn near savage by the looks of him. I don't like this whole thing about the gangs, Vallon."

Vallon stared at him suddenly, "What? Come now, Monk, this isn't a gang he's taking us to."

Monk grimaced, "Want to wager the last of yer ha'pennies on that?"

Jack suddenly reappeared, "Oy, how'd you like to join the Roach Guards?"

Vallon paused, "Mayhaps. What are they exactly?"

As Happy Jack talked and talked about the Roach Guards, Monk sighed inwardly. The Good Lord had failed him. They hadn't entered a new society, just a new country with the same principles.

**_Author's Note=_****_ Hell-Cat Maggie would have been twelve if resources can be trusted, but even they're unsure about her age, so I decided to age her up a bit to fifteen to contribute more to my story. Oh, and the Roach Guards were indeed a gang that later dissolved. One of the gangs that was branched out from that gang was the Dead Rabbits. Finally, there will be much Irish slang in the dialogue from this point on. Readers may be confused at times, but I'll try and define as many as I can._**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Monk and Vallon followed Happy Jack into a large building that seemed to be the big home for every Irish person in the Five Points. Everywhere there were Irish people involved in some kind of activity. Monk almost felt homesick, it was so much like Dublin. This was where people tried to live as if they hadn't endured a terrible voyage over the high seas to escape their home.

Vallon felt the same way, and in a choked voice, he asked Jack, "How many are here?"

Jack shrugged, "I couldnae tell you, Priest."

They went into a small room, which unlike every other room they had seen so far was not crowded with people. Instead, a group of three men were seated around a small table, counting up coins that glinted in the candlelight.

Jack spoke to them swiftly in Gaelic, "Two new lads off the boat looking for jobs."

The biggest of the men looked up, and Monk almost stepped backward in shock. The man's rugged features and scraggly beard gave him a look that Monk's own father had had. The same resilient fighter's look was undeniable.

The man spoke in an accent that suggested he was from the Ulster region up in the north of Ireland, "So? What's this about employment?"

Vallon nodded, "I'm Priest Vallon, and this is Monk, my friend. We're wondering if there's anything we could do in your establishment."

The man smiled at the nicknames, "Establishment? Is that what they're calling it back home?" His two friends snickered.

Vallon grimaced, but said nothing.

After his moment of amusement, the man introduced himself, "I'm Keenan McFay, known as the Captain. I'm leader of the Roach Guards, and I say that now in case either of you have come here to kill me and take my place."

Monk and Vallon looked at each other in bemusement, and Vallon spoke again, "No, not at all."

The Captain smiled, "I can see you're both good lads, but I don't know if I want to put you both in my gang. What will you do?"

Vallon spoke up, "I'll be a full fledged member. Service in exchange for protection and a share in the reward."

The Captain nodded, "Can you prove it?"

Monk felt disgusted. It was just like this back in Dublin. An initiation that you had to do in order to secure their trust before taking you on.

Vallon smiled, "I'll make you a hundred dollars by tomorrow."

The Captain did a double take, "What?"

Vallon shrugged, "Monk and I can do it."

Monk looked at Vallon blankly. Partly he was thinking of their old business in Dublin, and how they had always made a surefire profit, but on the other hand, he wasn't sure if he wanted to do this. He had come to America to escape the gangs. He had noted that many of the Irish accents in the place were fading, replaced by the more flat tone of the Americans. This was no Dublin, just a cheap replication.

He said nothing of the sort. Maybe he had it wrong, after all. He didn't want to antagonize the Captain against Vallon or himself. There was still a profit to be made.

The Captain spoke up, "A hundred dollars then, gents. Tomorrow. But I'm raising the stakes here now. I want three ears from each of you. American ears."

Monk shuddered. Brutal fucking system down here. Even the hardiest of Dublin gangs never asked for ears. They treated their dead with a tad more goddamn respect that cutting off their fucking ears!

Vallon looked astonished too, but hid it immediately, "One for each man?"

The three men laughed, and Jack, standing by the door, added, "Aye. One per man."

Vallon nodded, "Do you need a witness with us? To make sure we do it?"

The Captain grinned, "If you want."

Vallon nodded towards Jack, "I'll take him along, and you can choose another."

The Captain grinned, "Well, fine by me. I'll send them wherever you want to meet up with them."

Monk spoke up, the first time he had done so, "There's an Irish pub as you go to the harbour from here. It's called Finnegan's, and one of the bar maids is a girl named Maggie. We'll be sitting outside waiting for them."

The Captain nodded, "Very well."

Vallon had suddenly looked at Monk in surprise, and when they were back outside, he muttered, "What was that all about?"

Monk spoke up, "I don't trust them, Vallon. This is bloody worse than what we left behind. Cutting off ears for feck's sake!"

Vallon sighed, "Such is the way of the world."

Monk spat, "Well let's get going and wait for these two culchies."

"" " "" "" "" " " " "" " "" "" "" ""

Maggie was still there when they got back. She looked at them in surprise, and smiled, "Well! That was fast! Any luck?"

Monk spoke up, "Aye, there's two lads from the Roach Guards going to meet us here and we head off to the docks and make our money."

Maggie paused, and then took their order for something to drink.

The two young men took up the exact same table they'd had only an hour and a half before.

Maggie came up and handed them their drinks, "You're going to go raid ships?"

Vallon grinned, "Aye, that was our specialty in Dublin."

Maggie sighed, "Hate to break it to you boys, but this aint the bloody Liffey, this is the New York harbour. It's different here."

Monk growled, "Tell me about it."

Maggie looked Monk directly in the eye, "You've noticed too?"

Monk nodded, "It's amusing that I left Dublin for this place hoping to get away from the violence."

Maggie chuckled, "Aye, my Da thought so too. And then he died of tuberculosis here."

Monk felt a pang of deep sadness and he reached out to touch Maggie's hand. To his continued astonishment, she made no attempt to recoil his touch, "I'm sorry, Maggie."

Maggie smiled warmly at the concern, "Thankee, but it was four years ago. Bit late to start crying again."

Vallon pointedly looked away from the two of them (to Monk's gratitude) and he spoke to her again, "So what are you doing in a place like this?"

Maggie jerked her head over inside the pub, "My mother married the owner of this pub. He's an alright fellow with a deathly fear of God's anger. So he treats us well, and pays me wages and provides for us."

Monk felt relieved, "You're a lucky girl."

Maggie shrugged, "Aye, and all I have to put up with is a few pinches and catcalls from the men I serve here." She sounded very bitter as she spoke about her work.

Monk said nothing to this, and looked at Vallon, "You keepin' an eye out for them?"

Vallon nodded, "I am."

Monk looked back at Maggie and gave her his last ha'pennies, "Here. My treat."

Maggie looked astonished at his generosity and smiled. Monk felt an excitement within him again as he looked at her pretty, well-fed face.

Tenderly holding her hand, he gave it a gentle kiss. He felt her hand shudder, but she did not withdraw it until someone called her name.

When she was gone, Monk sighed nervously and sat back. Vallon grinned at him, "Love how you always live up to your nickname."

"Shut up," Monk said automatically. He had felt a feeling for Maggie that he'd never felt for anyone before.

Vallon chuckled, "America's not so bad innit?"

Monk growled, "America didn't produce that girl. She's a reminder of what the good we left behind."

Vallon thought about that, "It always seems so good and pure once it's gone."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Happy Jack arrived within the hour, accompanied by a short, powerfully built man that looked to be older than Vallon by a few years. His hair was cropped close to his skull, and he was clean-shaven.

Monk looked at the second man with a wary gaze. He didn't know if the Captain had sent him along as a spy or not, or maybe even an assassin. He just wasn't too sure about this man.

Happy Jack looked pleased to see the two of them again, though. He introduced the two men to his companion, and then introduced his companion as McGloin.

Monk briefly shook hands with McGloin, and said a greeting in Gaelic. He didn't like the dark look on McGloin's face.

Vallon, as usual, was far more open to introductions, and soon was speaking about the plan that he and Monk had already concocted. Maggie had provided them with information concerning the docks in between servings. Monk sighed, and looked back to where Maggie was, and blew her a mock kiss. Blushing deeply, Maggie pointedly looked away in order to focus on the customers.

Vallon spoke to McGloin and Jack, "Alright, here's what we do. We're going to raid some of the ships that are coming into this harbour. We'll make a profit, and set aside a hundred for Captain Keenan of the Guards."

McGloin shrugged, "Aye, but how are we going to do that? There's plenty of competition along the harbour and they don't appreciate outsiders taking the spoils." His accent was even thicker than Jack's and Monk wondered if any non-Irishers could understand him.

Vallon smiled, "We've got some tricks up our sleeve."

""" " "" " " "" " "" " "

That night, two American men stood watch over the view of the harbour.

The reason they stood ready to attention was the fact that a ship was coming into the harbour. It was a cargo ship, but smaller than the usual ones. Possibly a private ship owned by one of New York's wealthiest families or businesses. It was these kinds of ships that were most especially preyed upon by the gangs on the docks. For it was these boats that insulted the gangs most of all, and the fact that people could afford such unimaginable luxury.

One of the men drew heavilly on a cheap cigar that was common throughout the poor classes in New York. Cursing its incompetence, the man looked to his partner, "When are the rest of the boys coming with the boat?"

The partner checked the position of the moon, "Shoulda been here already, but-"

The man suddenly stopped in mid-speech due to the heavy blow on the back of his head. He fell forward without another sound. The second man jumped back in shock, his gasp cut short by the blow to his own head.

Monk smiled at his handiwork despite the depressed feeling he'd had all day. Patting his shillelagh, he checked to see that both men were still breathing.

He headed down the dock to where the unconscious bodies of five others were lying at the water's edge. Beside them, floating in the water, Vallon and Happy Jack held a sixth man at gunpoint. The man was gagged with a belt and held the oars in his hands with a death grip.

Vallon held the pistol that they had taken from one of the five men lying on the dock's edge, "So? McGloin heading off to prepare the the decoy?"

Monk nodded, "He told me ten minutes and then the signal would be out."

Vallon grinned, "Excellent. Let's get going then."

"" "" " " " "" " "

The fire was already blazing merrily when dozens of men came running up to see what was going on. Men started to douse the flames until the fire brigade got there. In the meantime the unconscious men were ignored in favour of the dangerous flames threatening to spread to the rest of the buildings.

The fire brigade arrived, but could not find the fire hydrant because a representative of another fire brigade on the way had hidden it. Even as the second brigade arrived, the first one was seething with fury and began to start a fight next to the burning building.

Even while all this was going on, one gang member noticed the unconscious bodies and brought them about. Within ten minutes, roars of rage could be heard along the dock and the local gang noticed that two of their three boats were gone. Taking the last one, they headed out to where they could see, in the moonlight, one of the boats headed out towards the cargo ship.

Two men were in the boat, as far as they could see, and they were eager to take as many as they could to take vengeance for this insult.

Manned by twice as many oars, the gang's boat closed the distance quickly between them and the stolen craft. They yelled out towards the craft and swore by Hell and Satan that they would kill them both after a day of torture.

A gun shot rang out suddenly, and the men on the gang ducked in shock. Looking up, they saw that none had been hit and it was safe to look up again. To their astonishment, they saw that the two men were no longer visible. They noticed one body lying down. Christ, they were preparing to shoot again! Doubling their efforts at the oars, the other gang members took out their own pistols and fired at the stolen boat to keep the enemies' heads down.

Finally they got to the enemy boat, and to their horror, they saw only the body of their comrade, a bloody bullet hole between his eyes. No other person was on the boat.

"" "" " " " "" " " "" """" """

Monk, Happy Jack, and McGloin worked quickly. They looted as much as they could off the ship, anything light that could be carried. Luckily the sailors offered little resistance after Monk's shillelagh broke a few arms and legs.

Picking up a jeweled necklace, Jack smiled at the other two men, "Well done, Monk, but I don't understand what Priest is up to."

Monk did not return the smile, "Vallon's outsmarted men like these before. He'll be fine."

McGloin was far more suspicious, "How? He'll never outrun the gang and he'll have to fight his way through them. Even he's not that tough. Irish hide can't repel bullets."

Monk grimaced, "Just get the loot and hurry the feck up!"

Jack quickly stuffed some more coins in his pocket, "You two did this in Dublin too?"

Monk suddenly smiled, and spoke a sentence in Gaelic.

Jack paused, looked at McGloin, and back at Monk, "That means "If you're not strong you'd better be smart", doesn't it?"

Monk nodded, "That's true, Jack. My father taught me that many times."

McGloin looked at Monk, at how he continued to lean nigh off the boat, observing the dark waters of New York's harbour.

McGloin spoke up, "What're you looking for, Monk?"

Monk turned to look at McGloin, "Pass me the lantern and you'll find out."

Jack stared at Monk, "But they'll see us!"

Monk shrugged, "We'll risk that. Light it up and give it here."

Holding the lantern just a hand's breath above the water's edge, Monk prayed that this worked.

After a waiting time that seemed to last hours to Monk, he could see movement just under the water's surface. Monk suddenly hoped that it was what he thought it was.

Vallon's head burst up from the surface, gasping for air like a bullock crossing a river.

Jack and McGloin jumped in shock, swearing foully and pointing at Vallon as though he was a ghost.

Monk was amused by their reactions. But indeed, their surprise were well-placed; who else in New York could swim so well? Vallon's skill in swimming was almost equivalent to a miracle to many people.

Vallon crawled into the boat, and after being handed three layers by Monk, he spoke in a voice that shook with cold, "G-g-get me the f-f-f-_fucking hell to land!_"

Monk was so tickled by the sight of Vallon that he couldn't help but laugh. This was as close to Dublin as New York had come so far in terms of familiarity.

He somehow knew that it was probably just a last hurrah before the storm returned.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

The four men counted the loot up properly, and divided the extra shares amongst themselves.

Vallon grinned at Monk, "Things are starting to go our way, no?"

Monk shrugged, "Aye, it was successful. But we have to get out of here."

Vallon nodded, "Right. We'll just collect the money here and give it to the Captain."

Jack suddenly piped up, "There's still the matter of the three ears, Vallon."

Monk shuddered. He had completely forgot about that, perhaps willingly. He didn't want to kill someone just to take one of their ears. If he was going to kill someone, let it be for a proper reason.

Vallon looked at Monk, "Well, I have one already." He pulled a bloody human ear from his pocket and held it up in the light."

Monk stared at him, "What?"

Vallon nodded, "Aye, so we'll have to go find ourselves other victims."

Monk did not break his stare; Vallon showed no remorse over this fact. He seemed quite eager to fit in with this new country. Monk had thought he would have kept his dignity.

McGloin gave Monk a level look, "Somethin' the matter boyo?"

Monk glared at McGloin. The smug bastard seemed to see Monk as a squeamish weakling for not wanting to cut off a person's ear. Well fine, Monk thought, if higher morals and a fear of God's judgement was squeamish, so be it.

McGloin was not finished though. He had clearly been sent by the Captain to judge the two young men, "Do you have a problem with showing your loyalty?"

Vallon looked up as though ready to interfere, but Happy Jack held up a hand. Clearly this was a test that Monk had to take.

Monk didn't notice Vallon's attempted interruption, "I was taught to honour mine enemy. I was taught that I'm being judged by superior beings."

McGloin paused, and spoke again, "Monk, there's things that we need to do to survive this world. God can forgive an act that helps us to survive."

Monk spat, "I don't need to deface fellow men to survive. My existence doesn't depend on it."

"Take care in saying that later," McGloin replied darkly.

Monk almost laughed in contempt, but checked himself. McGloin was actually serious, which was laughable, but he did potentially have the power to unleash persecution on Monk's head.

Monk looked at McGloin with a less aggressive air, "I haven't threatened you at all McGloin. Nor have I insulted the Roach Guards."

McGloin acknowledged that with a shrug, "So?"

Monk stood up, shillelagh looped in his hand but pointed at the ground, "If deforming a person is the way to show loyalty here then I won't have any part of it."

Vallon did a double take, and stood up with him, "What are you doing?"

Monk looked at Vallon, "You can tear heads off and destruct the world with the rest of these Americanized Irish if you want, but I'm not going to join in."

Vallon stared at him, "You're walking away from me? After everything?" He looked ready to attack Monk in rage. Monk felt the same way about Vallon but refused to show the emotions tearing his insides apart. He kept his face calm and determined.

He spoke to Vallon again, "I'll always remain your friend, Vallon. You'll be welcome to stay with me wherever I stay if I have a say in it, but I will not be involved in the gangs again. Not like my father." Vallon shuddered, both men knowing just how intertwined their stories were.

All three of them were staring at Monk in surprise. Monk wondered if he was going to be attacked, but knew Vallon would kill them before he killed Monk. There was too much history, and the thought of all that history made him want to weep at this separation between him and Vallon, who he had regarded as a friend and brother in Ireland.

Vallon spoke again, "So what will you do?"

Monk smiled in relief at the lack of hostility, "Find a place and run a business."

Happy Jack nodded, "Fair enough. And what if we could use yer services?" Jack was smarter than he seemed, Monk thought. He knew Monk was still useful as a mercenary and a fighter. Monk wondered how much he could blacken his soul before stepping over his ideals.

Monk sighed, "There's two things that drive men in this world. God and money. You can't offer me God."

McGloin spat on the ground, "Very well. You go and enjoy yerself working straight."

Monk gave one last grin, "I'm a crook like you. The difference is I don't bend further with the times."

McGloin's look darkened, "Oy, I can only take so much guff from a man."

Monk nodded, "Ay well, I'll let you continue acting the maggot on someone else time." McGloin, who did not believe he'd been behaving foolishly at all, turned a beet red with anger. Nevertheless, he let Monk go as the young man walked away.

Monk headed back to the Five Points, but as he walked along, he suddenly ducked into an alleyway and roared in anger. He let out the emotions that had been festering in his guts ever since he'd last looked Vallon in the eye. The man had been such a good friend and had meant a lot to him over the years. Now their closeness was over, for Vallon would immerse himself in the gang life, as he'd done in Ireland.

Cuffing away at tears, Monk wondered what he'd do now. What was he to do? He was seventeen, strong, stubborn, and bound by nothing other than the fact that he was alone and without friends.

Well, almost.

"" "" "" " """ "" """ "" """ "" "" """ "" "

Monk hurried along through the streets, his rucksack pounding along on his back and his shillelagh still looped in his hand. The money he'd earned from the job would have been jingling in his pocket had he not put it in a small sack along with strips of cloth to muffle their clinking.

He hurried on, oblivious of who was in his way. He ran out of a desperation that filled a man when he knew that he was facing his last resort. Monk wondered what he would do if this didn't work out the way he hoped.

He stared at the buildings he passed by, trying to remember if he was going the right way or not. It hadn't been too long ago since he'd seen them.

Monk's feet felt like individual lead weights, having run all the way from the harbour to here. He was sure that he would be able to find it, there was no way he could miss it now after all he'd been through.

He bumped into a very wealthy-looking official. He looked at Monk with much irritation and annoyance, "Watch yourself lad!"

Monk stared at him wildly, "What time is it sir?" He gasped with air as he waited for the official to pull out one of those expensive pocket watches that the city had begun to sell in a higher quantity.

The man looked at Monk again, "Quarter to midnight."

Monk thanked the man and ran along. After a minute he cursed himself for not asking where the pub was.

He needn't have bothered though. He was still cursing himself when it came into view.

Monk stopped and stared. It was the same still, only with fewer customers at this time of day. Monk suddenly drank in all the details. The pub was lit more than any other building around it. It seemed to shine with another sheen altogether by the fact that he needed this place now more than any time before today.

To think that this had been the first place he'd stayed at since landing in America. It was also the place that could save him from being a destitute wanderer. The first person he'd truly met in America worked here, and he had fallen in love with her over the course of the day. It had been like divine intervention that he'd seen her again and again. Was she still here? Or was she asleep? He'd have to wait for the next day, and the thought was too much to bear.

He stepped forward, and in shock, stopped again.

She was there.

Maggie stood at one of the tables, wiping it down with a rag. In the light, she seemed to shine. Monk's heart pounded in his chest so hard it hurt. He stared at her with the love he'd felt but had been suppressing in front of the others.

He took a step forward, afraid to be unable to walk to her. With one step, though, he took another, and another, until he was almost running for her. He called out her name in his joy and fear.

She turned in shock, then saw who it was, and her look turned into bemusement.

He should have stopped just short of colliding with her, and he should have explained himself completely. He should have told her of his plight, and explained his actions when he'd last seen her. He should have listened to her answer politely and then asked the question he most yearned to ask. Then an answer would be given, and he would go on from there.

He had no time for that. He had no words to describe it. His half-admitted feelings were only just full-fledged. He was a young man not even in his prime, and she was so beautiful.

Grabbing her around her middle, he swept her off her feet and gave her a passionate kiss.

Time seemed to freeze. He kissed her deeply, feeling no response from her. Then after a beat that seemed to extend into ten minutes, she suddenly fiercely grabbed the back of his neck with two hands and kissed him back.

He was tired as a race horse, but he would have held her there forever to keep the moment. He would have killed for her at that moment. He would have crossed Hell for her at that moment. His joy could not be recorded properly.

He suddenly put her down, though. She stared up at him with shining eyes, breathing heavily for air. She spoke softly, "So I'm to assume you were successful?"

Monk paused, wondering if there was a trick in that, then spoke again, "I'm going to try and live my life without depending on the gangs. I'll have a life that I'll defend with my shillelagh and my honour. I'll follow God's ways as best as a flawed man can do, and I love you."

Maggie laughed at the last part, "Jesus, Monk, you really need to find a better nickname than that." She suddenly embraced him and kissed him again.

Monk heard ironic applause from the others watching this, and didn't give a damn.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Monk was readily accepted by Maggie's foster father as a good worker. Of course, he was given the job of being a bouncer for the place. Even at seventeen, Monk was a well-built man with a fearsome weapon. Monk privately wondered whether people thought the notches represented men that _he_ had killed. Of course, that was not the case; his father had done that. Monk had yet to kill a man with this weapon.

For the next year, he worked in the pub, earning his keep through the many drunks he would kick out of the pub, or the gangsters he kept away. He also kept a room downstairs, as far away from Maggie as the parents could manage without being rude. While Maggie would have loved to share her bed with Monk, her mother- a devout Catholic- had strongly objected to this. Monk himself knew that it was the right thing, as much as he longed to hold Maggie as a lover.

During the course of the year that he worked, he became well acquainted with a fellow bouncer that Maggie's foster father had hired. The man's name was Redmund Sirocco. Redmund was twenty-one, married, and settled in a house not too far from the pub. He had been born in New York to Irish immigrants, and he was interested in stories of Dublin and Ireland from Monk.

Monk liked Redmund; the man was a sound thinker, sharp with his wits, and fierce in combat. He was a part-time member of the Roach Guards, and he was able to provide Monk with information on them. And about Vallon.

Monk tried to contact Vallon in the first few months, but never seemed to get through to him. After meeting Redmund, he would speak to Redmund about talking to Vallon for him. Redmund became the middle man in their conversations, but the message became more and more infrequent as time passed. Vallon was becoming heavilly involved with the Roach Guards as they competed for power and wealth with the Bowery Boys and other such gangs.

Monk stayed out of the conflicts, trying to live honestly and showing himself to be a good man to Maggie's family. He desperately wanted Maggie's mother's blessing, and so he was quite willing to wait and show her what kind of a man he had been raised to be.

And he had indeed been raised well. Not just piously by a good mother who believed in morals and higher values, but also as a man who could provide for his family by a flawed but loyal father.

Monk had been taken aside early on by Maggie's mother and her husband, and the three of them had talked about Monk and his family.

Maggie's mother was a stern, drawn woman that had reminded Monk of his own mother. She approved of Monk's description of his mother; a dear woman who had placed the love and fear of God into her children from an early age and had made them attend Mass. He had served as an altar boy in his early youth, and had been taught prayers in Latin.

Then Maggie's mother began asking questions of Monk's father.

His father. Monk knew that even if he lived to be a hundred, he would never truly know whether he was proud or disapproved of his father. Certainly he honoured him, as God had decreed, and the man had remained faithful to his family, and had worked honestly enough, but he had also been a drunk and a ruthless fighter in the streets of Dublin. His shillelagh had crushed skulls and broken spines; he had held his position with a ferocity of a true Irishman.

As Monk expected, Maggie's mother disapproved of the description, however positive Monk tried to sound in defending his father. She then asked what his first job had been.

Monk had smiled as he remembered that happy time in his life.

_Walter was set to be an apprentice of Cillian's in order to learn the trades of being a barber. However, in the beginning, Walter was mostly busy as a shoe-shiner and a cleaner of the hair that fell onto the floor during Cillian's business._

_He would often find himself working with Vallon, who had a part-time job as a cleaner of the store or a manager of customers in waiting. The two boys became good friends as they worked together._

_Seamus would always ask Walter to see the money that he earned, and he would smile at the coins and ruffle his son's hair. He would then take half the money for drinks while instructing Walter to give the rest to his mother._

_Seamus was part of a gang of Irish Catholics that fought fiercely with the Protestants that came over to try and secure the best business in Dublin. The two religions had long ago made their feud well known, and it seemed that God intended for them to forever be at odds._

_Walter and Vallon were caught up into it immediately. Both were put through a long education from the church, and they learned about saints, miracles, retribution, and the books of the Bible from the priests._

_Vallon, being the older one, entered the world of the gangs earlier than Walter, and he certainly made the transition much easier than Walter did._

_Cillian was impeccable while working. He was always on time, always cleanly dressed, always cordial to his customers and speaking with them in friendly conversation. He was purely respectable in appearance, and if one would tell one of his customers that he was one of the most ruthless assassins of the dark Dublin alleyways, one would not expect much acceptance. _

_But a gang fighter he was. And a great one at that. He and Seamus began to see each other more regularly now that Walter worked as an apprentice, and the partnership benefited both men. It also benefited Vallon and Walter. The two boys became altar boys together at their church, and they both argued whose father would win in a fight against other famous gangsters. _

_Of course, there came a moment when Walter, at age twelve, began to cut people's hair. __He had moved up from shining shoes and cleaning, and was starting to learn the art of cutting hair and shaving beards. Cillian showed him everything, all the skills that were required of a barber. Walter learned to trim the hair behind a man's ears, and he learned to shave a cheek without breaking the skin. He also learned to make a clean cut for bloodletting and the like._

_All the while he made money for his family. Walter's mother was able to get more food for them all, even with the money Seamus spent on drink. She ran a tight, God-fearing family and she would hold hard even if it killed her._

_Walter's dedication to the church was also getting him a nickname. The other altar boys, amused by Walter's piety, called him Monk. Walter was relieved that it was not a nickname to feel bad about. He knew one boy who had been nicknamed Baill, Gaelic for 'spot', because of the pockmarks that had covered his flesh._

_In the meantime, Vallon began to flaunt his piety, even in battle. He wore a priest's collar when he got into a fight with local boys like Fin, who never forgave Vallon the beating he had received. He started to be called Priest, for though he loved God, he was not as dedicated to His service as Walter. _

_Thus their nicknames started, and all the while their fathers fought in gang wars.  
_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Fourteen months had passed since he had taken on the job of bouncer at Maggie's bar, and Monk's happiness had not abated. A full day's work, good pay, an occasional kiss from Maggie, and the pleasure of the company made him feel like the luckiest man in New York.

Redmond Sirocco was a good companion, and Monk would often talk with Redmond, or if he was lucky, Monk would speak with Vallon if their paths crossed. However, Monk felt that there was a rift between them now, one that would not fade off with time. It had started when Monk and Vallon had spoken together a year after Monk had found his job. It had been the first real conversation they had had since splitting ways.

_Vallon had approached him first. It had been a sunny day, and at dusk, the pink and yellow tints on the clouds added a mysticism to it that only miracles could rival. The sky had been turning dark, and the first torches were being lit._

_Monk had been off duty, in order to enjoy a drink by himself. He had not seen Vallon coming until the man was in front of him._

_"Happy birthday, Monk."_

_Monk, in spite of his surprise, had smiled. Vallon had always miscalculated his birthday by about a week or two. In this case, he had been a month late._

_Nevertheless, Monk got up to greet his old friend, "Thank ye Vallon. It's good to see you again."_

_Vallon nodded, "Aye. It has. Much has happened since last we spoke directly."_

_Monk shrugged, "Redmond might have told me about it."_

_Vallon grimaced, and sat down, "Can I have a drink with you?"_

_Monk sat back down, "Of course. Who would I be to deny you that favour?" As if on cue, Maggie came hurrying over, completely ignoring two customers she had been taking orders from. Her alertness to Monk's actions was surprising. She had seemed to know when Vallon came to Monk's table. Redmond, who was acting as bouncer at the time, would later say that Maggie had given him a nod when Vallon appeared and headed for Monk, as if to make sure Redmond was alert._

_Monk smiled tenderly at Maggie, and ordered a drink for him and Vallon. He felt surprisingly protective of her for some reason, as if Vallon were threatening her. He couldn't help but feel uneasy in Vallon's presence, especially since Vallon now carried a vicious short sword around wherever he went.  
_

_Vallon smiled politely at Maggie, and when she left, he looked back at Monk, "So how's the engagement?"_

_Monk shrugged, "I'm to be watched for my behaviour. To see if I've truly been taught the proper manners of an Irishman. Though in this case, we live in troubled times so Maggie's ma wants me to wait two years."_

_Vallon shook his head, "Two years? That's a while for a man to wait."_

_Monk shrugged, "I'm in no hurry. Besides, I want it to be proper."_

_Vallon smiled, "Still the same as ever, Monk."_

_"Aye. I try to uphold what I was taught."_

_Vallon frowned, "What's that supposed to mean?"_

_Monk sighed, and unleashed the feelings he was holding in his gut, "Vallon, I'm not gonna pretend that I respect what you do. Butchering American boys like they're animals."_

_"Oh aye, and you'd do the same if you saw how they treated us like animals." Vallon's voice was bereft of the friendliness he had had before._

_Monk felt uneasier than ever, but continued on, "This isn't the Protestant war in Dublin, Vallon."_

_"You see, I'm of a different view, Monk. From where I'm standing, it's the same battle."_

_Monk shuddered, "I came to this country to escape that battle."_

_"So did I, Monk,' Vallon replied, 'but the Good Lord wants us to prove our worth in finding a place to live as free men should."_

_Monk sighed, "Well, I've found my place to live." He gestured around him, at the bar and the house in the back. At Maggie and Redmond and Maggie's mother, who also worked as a waitress. He had found a home to live in and grow old in, and in the past year, Monk had set aside much of what he had done in Ireland. He had been able to leave behind his past before he had committed the act of murder._

_Vallon, who had killed people in Dublin and in New York, looked upon Monk with a new light in his eyes, "You can't run away from life, Monk."_

_Monk frowned, "What the hell's that supposed to mean eh?"_

_Vallon gave a smile that made Monk think of the old days, "I mean that I would love to do what you've done here. I'd love to find a family and be able to raise children, and teach them of God's greatness. But I can't."_

_"Why not?" Monk asked._

_"Because evil exists in our world, Monk. I could live with that, but evil is on our doorstep, trying to break through and drive us out for good. That evil must be kept at bay or else it shall consume us all. That evil must be fought before any kind of hope can exist in living peacefully. God may stand and support the righteous, but we're still here on earth, and the Good Lord doesn't always come down to help us. We need to help ourselves as well as trust in God."_

_Monk was dumbfounded by this speech, and a deep resentment began to grow in his mind. He had always known that faith in God could not save him from everything that occurred in life. But he had always avoided those wonders in his mind of where God ended and man began. He had not felt comfortable with those questions of God, for they dared to go places where he didn't want to go._

_He looked at Vallon, "I can avoid the evil by not being evil. I don't have to run with the gangs anymore. I'm content to stay here and live an honest life. Your father tried that too and he almost succeeded."_

_Vallon frowned, but acknowledged the point with a nod, "Yes he had a respectable home, and a good business, but the man he took them from wasn't so lucky." Ignoring Monk's look of surprise, Vallon got up, thanked his old friend for speaking with him, promised to keep in touch, and left._

After that encounter, Monk and Vallon couldn't help but feel strained in their relationship with each other. There was something blocking them from bonding like before.

But Monk was not too worried. Vallon was plunging headlong into a world that he had come here to escape from. He had a new family, and would become a husband in time, and then he would fulfill a dream of opening up his own barbershop, and he would prosper in that thing that was dubbed the American dream.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

_"My name is Mr. Antoon. I have a proposition for you."_

_Monk looked intently at Mr. Antoon. The man certainly looked like he had promise. The man was dressed in a fine coat that would have been torn to pieces in the Five Points. His face was unshaven, yes, but it had a strength showing out of it, a lean hunger for power.  
_

_Monk continued to cut the man's hair. Antoon could speak freely due to the fact that nobody else was in the shop this early. Most people had work to do, and besides, Monk had the unfortunate luck of being in the Five Points._

_A few song lyrics floated in through the open window. Monk cursed as he realized it was another troop of Bill's bunch. Ever since their victory over Vallon five years ago they had been insufferable. Not that they had been the best of sorts before the damn wars._

_Mr. Antoon spoke up again, "The Irish are scattered. The Dead Rabbits are outlawed, and Bill is busy securing his empire. It is not in my best interests that this continues."_

_Monk refused to be distracted from cutting the man's hair with talk of what was going on in the Five Points. He had no interest in the affairs of the Dead Rabbits, and not a week went by when he didn't look at Vallon's special razor and wonder why he'd gone through the trouble of keeping it. But for some reason, Monk just couldn't throw it away either. _

_He worked his way through the man's oily locks that turned his naturally gold coloured hair to a thick walnut shade. Monk reminded himself to ask the man if he wanted to have his hair washed before he left._

_"You want a shave as well?" He asked the man._

_Antoon grinned and nodded, "I'll take on, thanks." He put a few more coins onto the counter in front of him from his pocket. Monk began applying shaving cream to the man's face._

_Antoon spoke up again, "I said I have a proposition for you."_

_"I heard you before,' Monk said, 'but what exactly are you referring to?"_

_"I'm referring to resurrecting the Dead Rabbits and taking back what's ours."_

_Monk paused in surprise, "Ours?"_

_"The Five Points belonged to us when Priest Vallon ran the place. He was a legend, and he commanded the respect of the Irish," Antoon said, "In his day, we could expect our kind to look out for each other. Since his death, the Dead Rabbits are gone and splintered off. The other Irish gangs are weakening. Bill's gangs get stronger by the month. Soon we will be unable to fight back."_

_With the razor in his hand, Monk simply stood there, taking in all the words Mr. Antoon was saying, trying to garner something of a view on the man. What did Antoon want?_

_Monk looked at the man, "What does all this have to do with me, eh?"_

_Beneath the shaving cream, Antoon smiled, "You and Vallon got off the goddamn boat together."_

_Monk looked at the man curiously, "How do you know that?"_

_"I was there too."_

_The razor fell from Monk's hand and clattered to the floor. Monk bent down to pick it up, and began to shave the man, silencing him. Antoon ceased to speak, not wanting to get cut by the razor, but his eyes remained fixed upon Monk. The burly Dubliner focused on his work, carefully shaving his customer to the best quality that he could._

_Monk stopped for a moment, "That's the truth?"_

_Antoon nodded, "I swear on the Holy Trinity and my soul's right to enter heaven that I was there."  
_

_As Monk took the information in, Antoon spoke again, "Meet me__ tonight,__ where Vallon perished."_

* * *

_It was a warm night for New York. Monk stood still, his shillelagh ready in his hands if need be. No Irish gangs roamed Paradise Square anymore. Instead, the gangs were true blue Americans. They didn't seem that interested in him, though, for Monk had no trouble standing in the square._

_Mr. Antoon appeared out of the shadows, "I say we rally the Irish gangs and take back what is ours before it's too late."_

_Monk grimaced, "And who'll be the one to do that?"_

_Antoon smiled knowingly._

_Monk paused, and then spoke again, "I'm not a patriot or a hero. I don't pretend to be Vallon's successor. That's what Amsterdam's for."_

_Antoon paused, "What?"_

_Monk nodded, "Amsterdam Vallon. Son of Priest Vallon. He's growing up in hiding somewhere."_

_Antoon laughed nervously, "How did Bill let something like that go under his nose?"_

_"It wasn't under his nose. He fucking ordered the little boy to be given to the law and given an education. I don't know where he is or what else Bill planned."_

_"God in his heaven, but does Bill know about him?"_

_"Maybe, maybe not. I know I'm aware of him, and when he comes back to New York, which God knows he will, I'll be there for him."_

_Antoon paused, "You're loyal to the boy."_

_Monk shrugged, "I owe it to Vallon to take care of his wee son."_

_"So why not get him to stay with you?"_

_"He's safer in there than he is with me."_

_"Maybe not. What if Bill decides he's not worth the trouble?"_

_Monk looked around as some loud footsteps pounded down Cross, "He's been in there for three years. He's nine years old, he's no fucking threat to anyone but himself."_

_"Not for long. When he gets out, they'll come for him."_

_Monk looked at Antoon, "You know you've got a strange fascination for Vallon's boy."_

_Antoon shrugged, "I want him safe, so I do. When's he scheduled to come back to the Five Points?"_

_Monk didn't even think about it, "I have no idea. I don't know when he gets out of wherever they're keeping him and even when he does get out, who's to say that he'll come here?"_

_Antoon laughed, "A minute ago you said you were sure that he'll be back. Are you protecting him from me?"_

_Monk stepped forward, "I may not have been a Dead Rabbit or any of those Americanized Irish gangsters, but Vallon was an old friend of mine, and regardless of what he did in his life, his son's another matter. And I'm frankly starting to wonder if I can trust you, Antoon."_

_Antoon smiled, "Yeah, go ahead. Turn on me and strike me down with all your might. The greatest street fighter in the Five Points, they call you. Great enough to beat Bill himself, they say. I'm sure I'd be easy enough to kill."_

_Monk frowned darkly but did not say anything._

_Antoon turned to leave, "I'll come back for a shave in two weeks. Best one in the Five Points, I'll say that." _

_Monk watched him leave, and he wondered what the man was planning.  
_


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

Monk sat with Maggie as they watched the sun emerge in all its golden glory over the Atlantic ocean.

They had worked out that Maggie had turned seventeen, and Monk's two year period of waiting was almost at an end. To celebrate, they got up early to watch the sunrise together.

Maggie's mother had found no fault with Monk in all the time that he had spent working in the pub. He had carried himself responsibly, and his honesty had impressed both Maggie's mother and her stepfather. Monk had earned a reputation as being a tough man to cross, and he was vicious in enforcing order upon the pub. Drunks were given one warning, and if they refused that courtesy, were thrown out by either the 19 year old Monk, or the 23 year old Redmond Sirocco. Both young men were being toughened by the streets of New York, but Monk could proudly say that he was part of no gang.

As the sun turned the sky red, Maggie rested her head on Monk's forearm, "It's beautiful, innit?"

"Aye,' Monk replied, 'Almost makes me forget what kind of world we've made out of God's own Earth."

Maggie sighed, "Ach, Monk, let's not bring all that up for the moment. We're supposed to be rejoicing."

Monk smiled and put his arm on Maggie's shoulder, "Of course I'm rejoicing! We'll be together soon, and one day in the far future we'll be in charge of that pub. Why, I've even thought that I might change the name to 'McGinn's'." He began to smile, but suddenly found that a niggling thought in the back of his mind prevented him from embracing the idea.

Maggie sensed the discomfort in Monk. She suddenly sat up and looked at him, "But Monk, are you no longer interested in yer other idea?"

Monk paused thoughtfully. He had told her about his trade. Of course he had. He had her mother and stepfather as well. They had asked him if he planned to go back to that trade.

Monk still wasn't sure. He hadn't found any property that seemed well suited, and even if he did, he had no amount of money that would pay for it. His savings were small, as he was often paid through his lodgings and food.

"I'm not sure about it, anymore, Maggie. It seems like I don't have the means to do it. And besides, the pub will be a fine profit for the pair of us. Finnegan's got no other children, we'll be set to inherit the place."

Maggie nodded, "Aye. But are you sure that you'd be happy?"

Monk shrugged, "After all I've been through, even the smallest bit of happiness seems like God's own miracle."

""" "" " " "" """ """" """ """ " """ """ "" """ "" "" ""

As the morning began, the pair hurried back to the pub so that they could prepare for the first customers.

Maggie's mother usually worked at night, so she was sleeping in, but Finnegan was awake and about. Finnegan was a tired-looking man in his middle age, losing what little grey hair he had left on his head. Looking up from his task of wiping the tables, he was surprised to see Monk and Maggie hurrying up, "Oy, where have you two been?"

Monk pointed towards the docks, "We were watching the sun come up. That's all."

Finnegan frowned suspiciously, but said no more of it. Monk had had so many opportunities to betray his trust, but Monk had never done so before. Finnegan had learned to trust the young Irishman through experience. All the same, the idea of sneaking out just to watch the sunrise seemed rather daft to such a man as Finnegan.

New York City was a busy place even so early in the morning. It was no time before a few early birds and some sleepy-looking night owls came in for a drink or something to eat. Monk kept a beady eye on the customers, searching for common thief practices amongst the customers.

At one point, Maggie handed Monk a container filled with milk from the small kitchen, "Here. A sample of some breakfast later."

Monk kissed her chastely on the cheek in thanks before draining his cup, "So how much longer do ye think before we can set a formal engagement?"

Maggie shrugged, "I'm not sure. Haven't asked yet, to be honest."

Monk nodded, "Ah well, it cannae be long now."

Suddenly raised voices reached the young couple's ears, and they turned to see where it was coming from. Finnegan was standing at the doorway of the pub, his arms folded defensively as he stared meekly at a man standing in front of him. The man was yelling and cursing, poking Finnegan's chest with his accusing finger.

Monk instinctively started forward, grabbing his shillelagh where it leaned against a nearby post. Maggie hurried to make sure that there was no other disorder amongst the customers.

Finnegan saw Monk approaching, "Walter! Stop right there and go do your job! I don't need any help here!" There was a note of pleading in his voice, as though he wished that nobody had noticed this confrontation.

The other man turned and stared angrily at the young Irishman, who stood his ground with his shillelagh in hand, "You keep out of this! This is between me and Finnegan!" The man had a flat American accent, and he wore a black top hat on his head.

Monk frowned at the condescension in the man's voice, but knew that he should obey Finnegan, his employer. Reluctantly, he turned and resumed watching the other customers, while the two men continued their conversation, except with much lower voices.

Eventually the man left in a huff, pausing once to spit at Monk's feet when he thought Monk wasn't noticing.

After the man had turned the bend, Monk looked at Finnegan, who had a humiliated air about him, "What was that all about?"

Finnegan sighed bitterly, "Nothing. He's just a man looking to get money that isn't his."

"Money?" Monk was curious.

Finnegan shrugged, "Aye. Money. He's saying that we fall under the territory of the Nativists now. Bloody Americans want a tax on any non-American shops and businesses here. As if they have the bloody right to do so!"

Monk was worried. The gangs were a constant threat, but he had so far been lucky in keeping out of the fight. However, there constantly remained the threat of being swept into their fights.

"What are you gonna do, then?" Monk asked.

Finnegan looked at Monk frankly, and Monk could see the desperation in Finnegan's eyes, "What am I gonna do? I've got little choice, don't I? Cassius will send his goons after me until I pay up. And while I hate the thought of it, I see no way around this mess. Of course if I do start doing this, it means I'm gonna lose money on this place and it'll only go downhill from there."

Monk nodded in agreement, but even as he did so, an idea was forming in his head. A way to pay the Nativists back at their own game. But for that, he would have to see an old friend.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

"Well well, Monk. It's been a while since I saw you last."

"" "" "" """ "" """ "" "" " " " "" """ "" "" """ "" "" """ "

Monk knew that he stood no chance on his own fighting a problem that he did not fully understand. Finnegan was unhelpful, his explanations too simple to explain why now of all times the Nativists were pressing on the neighbourhood. Perhaps a power shift? Had Finnegan offended one of the Nativists? Monk knew that he had to return to the Five Points and find things out for himself.

So one day, shillelagh in hand, he had strode into the Five Points, avoiding the Nativists or any of their allies. Primarily, there were the Bowery Boys and the Atlantic Guard, two other American gangs who opposed the immigrants coming to New York.

As he moved along, Monk noted the conditions of the buildings he passed. All of them were in some form of disrepair, often with at least one window broken or missing. Animals were in the streets, and the people stank worse than usual.

As Monk looked around, he noticed one building that was different from the rest. It was built on a sort of mound. Stairs led up to the building, and there was no other way to reach it. The building looked faded and worn out. Monk wasn't sure what to make of it, as there was no sign that it was a place of business or just a home.

A call suddenly broke his train of thought. He looked around to see none other than Happy Jack running towards him. The young Irishman had put on some considerable weight since Monk had last seen him. There was also the beginning of a moustache appearing on Jack's face.

"Hi there, Monk! What are ye doin' here?" Jack asked as he skidded to a halt.

"I'm looking to have a word with Vallon. Is he around?"

Jack paused, and sighed, "Well, it's been a while since you saw him, eh?"

"Aye. So what?"

"Well... Priest has risen in importance, shall we say. He's The Captain's right-hand man nowadays."

Monk almost took a step back in surprise, "So soon?"

Jack shrugged, "Aye. Captain's taken a liking to him, and he's been a big help in the fight against the Nativists."

Monk nodded slowly. Certainly he was surprised at Vallon's rise to power in such a short amount of time. But then again, Vallon had always been ambitious. He'd inherited it from his father.

Brushing memories of Ireland out of his head, Monk looked at Jack, "So can I see him? Or is there some kind of ritual I need to fulfill?"

""" " """ """ """ """ """

Vallon was sitting in the headquarters of the Dead Rabbits, the same building that he and Monk had been brought to by Happy Jack almost two years ago. For a brief moment, Monk felt the entirety of those two years disappear as he embraced Vallon in greetings.

Vallon had always acted older than he was, but now it seemed that his age was catching up to him. He looked far more adult-like than the last time Monk had seen him, and he suddenly wondered if his own experiences in New York had made him grow up the same way.

Vallon sat down after his first wry comment, and waited for Monk to do the same. Monk noticed that there were five others in the room, including Happy Jack and McGloin.

"How have you been, Vallon?"

"I've been as well as can be expected. It's been a rough struggle with these so-called Natives, but it's nothing that I haven't been prepared to deal with."

Monk nodded in understanding, remembering Dublin.

"So what are you here for?" Vallon asked. "Are you changing your mind about this city and your place in it?"

"Not quite that. I need some information that I haven't been able to find by myself."

The men with Vallon looked at each other bemusedly. McGloin stared at Monk with a suspicious look in his eyes.

Vallon was undeterred by this, and cocked his head to the side, "And what would that be?"

Monk explained about his encounter with Finnegan and the Nativist, and concluding the tale with Finnegan's brief, evasive answers.

Vallon smiled knowingly, "Finnegan's in trouble, so he is. It's a well known fact here."

Monk didn't say anything, waiting instead for Vallon to continue explaining.

"Finnegan's one for the gambling. And I don't just mean the odd deal with a bookie and whatnot, I mean his very nature. He tries to be responsible about his life and his pub but he isn't taking the gangs into account. So he tried to make appeasements to both sides, hoping that it would keep them both out of the way. Unfortunately, both sides have come to figure it out by this point. We aren't that concerned, because we've got bigger problems for now, but that Nativist boss Bill Cassius is a right thrifty bastard. He's put that young lieutenant of his, Bill, on the job of collecting dues. An' as you may remember, young Bill's got a right hatred of the Irish. So he's figured that expanding the Nativist territory will force Finnegan to pay twice as much to him and nothing to us."

Monk was surprised by this explanation. He had not realized that Finnegan had been paying tribute to the gangs. Though as Monk thought of it, it would certainly explain Finnegan's nervous disposition, as well as the idea that there never seemed to be that much money available despite the pub's reasonable success.

"So what's going to happen to the pub? And Finnegan?" Monk asked.

Vallon shrugged, "Who knows? It's not in our power. We're outnumbered for now and we have enough troubles here in the Points. Finnegan will have to pay the tribute, but I don't think it will matter."

"Why not?" Monk asked, alerted to Vallon's last seven words.

"Because Bill will most likely evict him by force. And he'll end up doing the same to you, Monk."

Monk felt a deep anger growing in his guts. Finnegan meant no trouble to anyone, and now the Nativists were going to take away his livelihood?

"There must be something I can do, Vallon!"

Vallon's mild neutrality suddenly faded, replaced by genuine concern and regret, "I'm sorry, Monk. But I can't help you this time. I can only suggest that you avoid the matter by moving somewhere else."

"How? And where?" Monk stood up, bewildered and frustrated that these were the only bits of advice that Vallon could give him.  
Behind Vallon, McGloin put his hand on the handle of his knife, as though he expected Monk to start swinging his shillelagh.

Vallon took no notice of McGloin's reactions, but gazed sadly at his friend, "I'd offer to help you with that if I could, but maybe there's a place for you to go? Does Finnegan have any kin that could help him?"

"He's got nobody but me. I'll be engaged to Maggie soon, which will make me his stepson-in-law or something along those lines."

Vallon stood up in surprise, "What? So it's happening after all?"

Monk nodded slowly, realizing that he and Vallon had been far more out of touch than he'd realized. He smiled, "Aye."

Beaming, Vallon embraced Monk heartily, "Congratulations!"

For a brief moment, Monk felt the urge to laugh at his good fortune, but then he remembered what they had just been talking about and his mirth left him. He and Maggie would be destitute once the Nativists took over Finnegan's pub. What then?

It was then that Monk remembered what Maggie had brought up. His plan to become a professional barber. He had the training and experience, he just needed the supplies and a safe location. Was this a sign that he should go after this plan? But what about Finnegan and Maggie's mother? He would have to provide for them, and would Finnegan's pride allow for that?

Vallon suddenly spoke up, "What are you thinking?"

Monk shrugged, "I was thinking that I could finally follow in your father's footsteps."

At the mention of his father, Vallon seemed to look more sombre, "He would have been proud tae see that."

Monk nodded, "Aye, well I don't know how or when or where yet. I still need to figure out what to do about this whole Nativist problem."

One of the Irishmen behind Vallon suddenly replied, "Aye, that's what the rest of us are dealing with too!"

Ignoring the laughter, Monk continued talking to Vallon, "Listen, if you find word of any new location that we can move Finnegan to- a safer place where he can rely on his countrymen to help out- then let me know. In the meantime, God go with you."

Vallon nodded appreciatively, "Very well. And thank you."

Monk shook Vallon's hand one last time, and headed out of the room.


End file.
